The unmistakable gray-white dome of St. Paul’s floated on the horizon, merging with the pale gray sky, as Alice hurried east along Fleet Street, looking for the Daily Mail. Buildings on both sides of the road dwarfed her—vast neoclassical stone structures and Art Deco blocks, and smaller offices with Tudor or Gothic frontages, all with one thing in common: a guard at their entrance. She’d never had reason to visit this part of the city before, and the atmosphere was markedly different from Bloomsbury and Fitzrovia; there was an air of quiet authority, a seriousness with which those who brought the nation their news took their wartime role. And as Carmelite House came into view and she climbed the steps to the entrance, she considered that since the newspaper had been reduced to only four pages, the office staff would likely have been cut too. The author Evelyn Waugh was also a regular contributor to the paper, but since reporters were rarely at their desks, there was little chance of seeing him either.

Her footsteps rang hollow across the dark marble foyer, causing the dark-haired receptionist to stop her conversation with the security guard and smile as she looked up. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”

“I’m Miss Alice Cotton, here to see Miss Olive Melville Brown.”

“I’m afraid you just missed her.”

“If it’s all right, I can wait.”

“She might be some time. Do you have an appointment?”

Alice had intended to call ahead, but the surprise of seeing Ursula, and meeting Theo, had distracted her, and she grew deflated as she realized that she might not meet Olive today.

“Can I leave a message?” Alice asked, barely recognizing her own meek voice as she waited for the receptionist to hand her a pencil and paper. “Thank you,” she said, then hesitated, “but perhaps I could use your phone and call up now?”

“There’s really no point—everyone’s at lunch.”

It was only just midday, but why would the receptionist lie to her? Perhaps because of how she looked; she’d worn the cleanest of her two dresses but certainly not the smartest.

“I understand that your library is on-site,” she said. “Could I talk to your librarian?”

“It’s not open to the public.”

Alice didn’t identify with the timid creature she’d become; if she was to get what she wanted, she would certainly need to be a lot more cunning. “I’m not the public,” she said, stepping closer. “I work for Partridge Press. You probably know of Patricia Reece—”

“Why didn’t you say so before? I love her novels!”

Alice smiled. “Next time I visit, I’ll try to remember to bring you a signed copy of her latest book. Today I just need to confirm some information for a special project I’m working on.”